2026-02-16 04:54:23The taste of asphalt was the first thing Arlan noticed. Gritty. Wet. It tasted like defeat.
Rain didn't just fall in Veridian City; it hammered down like it had a personal vendetta against anyone stupid enough to be poor. Arlan Mahendra lay on his side, his cheek pressed against the cold, slick pavement of the alleyway behind the Grand Hilton Hotel. His ribs throbbed—a dull, rhythmic ache that spiked into sharp agony every time he tried to inhale. One. Two. Three. He counted his breaths. Just to make sure his lungs hadn't collapsed. "Pathetic," a voice drifted from above. It wasn't loud, but it cut through the noise of the storm like a serrated knife. Arlan squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't need to look up to know who it was. The smell of expensive cologne—sandalwood and arrogance—wafted down, overpowering the stench of the dumpster nearby. Julian. His half-brother. The Golden Boy of the Mahendra dynasty. "Open your eyes, mongrel," Julian commanded. Arlan forced his eyelids apart. The world was a blur of neon lights reflecting off puddles—sickly greens and violent reds. Julian stood there under the shelter of a holographic umbrella, dry and immaculate in a tuxedo that cost more than Arlan’s entire existence. "I came..." Arlan coughed, tasting copper. "I came for... what Dad promised." Julian laughed. It wasn't a villain's cackle. It was worse. It was a genuine, amused chuckle, as if Arlan had just told a joke at a dinner party. "Dad? You mean my father?" Julian stepped closer, his polished shoe hovering inches from Arlan's face. "The old man is on life support, Arlan. He can't promise you anything. And even if he could, do you really think the Board would let a bastard child like you inherit a single share of Mahendra Corp?" Bastard. The word didn't hurt anymore. He’d heard it every day for twenty-four years. What hurt was the envelope in his pocket—now soaked and ruined. It contained his mother's hospital bills. Without that money, they would pull the plug on her by morning. "Please," Arlan whispered. He hated himself for it. Hated the desperation clawing at his throat. "Not for me. For Mom. She's... she's dying, Julian." Julian’s smile vanished. His face went cold, like a marble statue. "Good." The kick came out of nowhere. It connected with Arlan’s stomach, lifting him slightly off the ground. Air exploded from his lungs. He curled into a ball, retching, gasping for oxygen that refused to enter. "That woman," Julian said, adjusting his cufflinks calmly, "was a leech. And you are just the parasite she left behind. Do everyone a favor, Arlan. Die in this alley. It’s cheaper than a funeral." Julian turned his back. The bodyguard, a mountain of muscle who hadn't spoken a word, followed him. They walked toward the waiting hover-limo, leaving Arlan alone in the dark, drowning in rain and bile. Is this it? The thought floated in Arlan’s mind, detached and hazy. The pain was starting to fade, replaced by a terrifying cold numbness creeping up his limbs. He had played by the rules. He had worked three jobs. He had studied until his eyes bled. He had been kind. And for what? To die like a stray dog while the devil walked away in a heated car? It’s not fair. The thought wasn't a whine. It was a roar. A silent, screaming roar that echoed in the empty hollow of his chest. I want them to pay. I don't want heaven. I don't want peace. I want... balance. PING. The sound wasn't external. It didn't come from the street. It originated directly inside his auditory cortex, sharp enough to make his teeth vibrate. Arlan flinched, his eyes snapping wide open. A screen appeared. Not a hallucination. Not a projection. It hung in the air, translucent and glowing with the deep, ominous red of dried blood. The rain passed right through it. [ SYSTEM INITIALIZATION... ] [ Scanning Host Vitality: CRITICAL (12%) ] [ Scanning Host Mental State: FRACTURED ] [ Detecting Karmic Imbalance... ] “What the hell...” Arlan wheezed. [ ALERT: Massive Injustice Detected. ] [ Subject: Arlan Mahendra. ] [ Victim Status: CONFIRMED. ] The text scrolled faster than he could read, data streams cascading like a waterfall of crimson code. [ The Universe has been watching, Arlan. ] [ You have suffered. You have endured. You have been broken. ] [ The Laws of Karma have been violated by those around you. The Balance must be restored. ] [ ACTIVATING: THE KARMA DEBT SYSTEM (Ver. 1.0) ] A new window popped up. It looked like a financial ledger, but instead of currency symbols, it listed names. [ DEBTOR DETECTED: Julian Mahendra ] [ Crimes: Physical Assault, Emotional Torture, Withholding Lifesaving Funds. ] [ OUTSTANDING DEBT: 5,000 KARMA POINTS. ] [ COLLATERAL AVAILABLE: Vitality, Luck, Charisma. ] Arlan stared. He blinked, trying to clear the rainwater from his lashes, but the screen remained. It hovered persistently, waiting. [ Do you wish to collect the debt? ] [ YES / NO ] His hand trembled as he reached out. His fingers passed through the light, but as his mind focused on the word 'YES', the screen pulsed. If I’m going crazy, Arlan thought, a dark, twisted grin tugging at his bloody lips, then let me enjoy the madness. "Collect," he rasped. "Take it. Take everything he has." [ REQUEST ACCEPTED. ] [ INITIATING COLLECTION... ] Inside the Mahendra Limousine. Julian poured himself a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid swirling smoothly as the car glided over the potholes. He felt good. Better than good. Dealing with that pest felt like taking out the trash. "Driver, take us to the club," Julian ordered, raising the glass to his lips. "I feel like celebrating." Suddenly, the crystal glass shattered in his grip. Not dropped. Shattered. "Argh!" Julian cried out, looking at his hand. A shard of glass had sliced deep into his palm. Blood—bright and fast—began to soak his white cuff. "Sir?" The bodyguard turned around. "I'm fine, just a—" Julian started to say, but his voice failed him. A wave of nausea hit him like a physical punch. His vision swam. His heart, usually strong and steady from years of expensive gene-therapy, skipped a beat. Then two. Then it started racing uncontrollably. "My chest..." Julian gasped, clutching his silk shirt. "I can't... breathe..." The car's lights flickered. The engine sputtered—something that should be impossible for a military-grade vehicle. Back in the Alley. Arlan gasped, arching his back off the wet pavement. Heat. Pure, unadulterated energy surged into him. It felt like being injected with liquid adrenaline. The agony in his ribs vanished instantly. The cold that had settled in his bones evaporated, replaced by a burning vitality. He stood up. He didn't stumble. He didn't sway. He stood up straight, his spine cracking satisfyingly. Arlan looked at his hands. The scrapes were gone. His skin, usually pale and malnourished, glowed with a faint, healthy luster. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs completely without a hint of pain. [ COLLECTION SUCCESSFUL. ] [ Received: 10 Years of Vitality (Stolen from Julian Mahendra). ] [ Received: Minor Luck Fragment (Stolen from Julian Mahendra). ] [ Current Host Level: 1 ] [ Karma Points: 100 / 1000 ] Arlan looked at the spot where the limo had disappeared. He could hear faint sirens in the distance—getting closer to where the car would be. For the first time in his life, Arlan didn't feel like a victim. He felt like a predator who had just tasted meat. "This..." Arlan whispered, clenching his fist, feeling the raw power coursing through his veins. "This is justice." He turned and walked out of the alley. He didn't look back at the spot where he had almost died. The Debt Collector had just been born.
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The Butcher's Bill
The Los Muertos Cartel didn’t hide their money in a bank. They hid it in a slaughterhouse on the edge of the Narrows. It made sense. The smell of rotting pork and bleach was strong enough to mask the scent of cocaine, and the sound of industrial meat saws drowned out the screams of anyone stupid enough to steal from them. Arlan crouched on the rusted fire escape of the building across the alley. The freezing rain whipped against his tactical jacket. His left shoulder—the one with the bullet graze—burned with a dull, rhythmic ache. Every time he shivered, it felt like a hot needle threading through his muscle. He pulled up the collar of his jacket and watched. Two guards at the loading dock. They were smoking, huddled under a flickering yellow bulb. They didn't look like professional mercenaries. They wore oversized hoodies and carried cheap, unregistered submachine guns slung loosely over their shoulders. Sloppy. Arlan reached into t
A Diet of Sins
The handshake was brief. Her skin was freezing, like marble left out in the snow."Don't look so grim, Arlan," Viper said, pulling her hand back and sliding it into the pocket of her crimson coat. "You just survived a forty-story drop and made the untouchable Julian Mahendra cry on national television. You should be celebrating."Arlan didn't feel like celebrating. He felt like he had been chewed up and spat out by a garbage truck. His shoulder throbbed with a sickening, hot pulse where the bullet had grazed him."The envelope," Arlan grunted, nodding at the white paper lying on the dusty concrete."Ah, yes. Your signing bonus." Viper tapped her cigarette, the ash falling onto the tip of her designer boot. "Inside is a keycard to a safehouse in the Narrows. Untraceable. Stocked with medical supplies and enough calories to keep you standing. There’s also a burner phone. Keep it on."Arlan bent down to pick it up. The simple motion sent a shockwave of agony through
The Broker of Sins
The adrenaline didn't just fade; it crashed.It felt like his blood had turned into lead. Arlan’s hands shook so violently he could barely keep the stolen van on the road. His vision blurred, the neon lights of the port district smearing into long, headache-inducing streaks.[ SYSTEM WARNING: ADRENALINE WITHDRAWAL. ][ Status: Critical Exhaustion. ][ Penalty: -50% Mobility for 4 hours. ]"Shut up," Arlan groaned, leaning his head against the steering wheel.He pulled up to the rusted gates of the Old Docks. The rain here smelled different—salt, diesel, and rotting fish. It was the smell of the city’s underbelly, where things went to disappear.Warehouse 9 was a skeletal beast of corrugated metal and broken windows. No lights. No guards. Just a gaping maw of darkness waiting for him.Arlan checked his pockets.The plastic spoon-shank.The stolen phone.And the memory of Julian’s terrified face.He stepped out of the van. His knees buckled, sending a jolt of agony up his spine. He grit
The Icarus Protocol
Pandemonium didn't happen all at once. It rippled.First, the silence. Then, the gasp. And finally, the scream."He's got a gun!" someone shrieked. Arlan didn't have a gun. He had a champagne flute stem and a terrifying smile, but in a room full of paranoid billionaires, fear filled in the blanks.The ballroom exploded into motion. Hundreds of bodies in silk and velvet scrambled for the exits. Tables overturned. expensive caviar was trampled into the plush carpet. A woman in a red dress tripped over her own heels, sobbing as the crowd surged around her like a terrified river.Arlan stood in the eye of the storm.Four M-SEC guards were closing in. They weren't moving like bouncers. They moved like wolves. Tactical. Silent. Hands reaching inside their jackets for suppressed pistols.Four targets. Distance: 10 meters. Closing speed: Fast.Arlan felt the hum of the System in his skull. It was buzzing angrily, feeding off the chaotic energy of the room.[ ALERT: High-Level Threat Detected.
The Art of Crashing
The Zenith Tower pierced the clouds like a needle of glass and arrogance.Arlan parked the stolen van three blocks away, in a shadowy loading zone meant for garbage trucks. It was fitting. He was about to take out the trash.He watched the entrance through the rain-streaked windshield.Limousines. Bentleys. Hover-cars that cost more than a small country’s GDP. Men in tuxedos that cost more than Arlan’s life. Women in dresses that sparkled like diamonds.Target selection.He didn't need a System for this. He needed common sense.He couldn't take a fat man's suit—it would hang off him like a tent. He couldn't take an old man's suit—too vintage, he’d stand out.He needed someone... his size.There.A young man, maybe twenty-five. Blonde. Drunk. Stumbling out of a red sports car, yelling at his valet. He waved a gold-embossed envelope in the air like a flag."Don't scratch it, you peasant! Do you know who my father is?"Arlan smiled. Perfect.He pulled up his hood. He slid the plastic spo
Meat, Bone, and Mathematics
The hallway of the SleepWalker Hotel smelled of mildew and stale ramen. The fluorescent lights buzzed—a dying, flickering sound that matched the headache throbbing behind Arlan’s eyes.He stepped out of Room 404.He didn't walk like Arlan anymore. The slouch was gone. His shoulders were squared, his chin tucked. His footsteps were silent, rolling from heel to toe on the dirty carpet.It felt... alien.His brain knew things he hadn't learned. He looked at the fire extinguisher on the wall and didn't see a safety device. He saw a blunt force trauma weapon, effective range: 2 meters. He looked at the plastic spoon in his pocket and saw a jugular piercer.Download complete, he thought. Now for the stress test.He didn't have to wait long.As he reached the elevator, the doors pinged. They slid open with a metallic groan.Three men stood inside.They weren't police. Police wore blue and looked tired. These men wore tactical black vests, earpieces, and the distinct, arrogant posture of priv
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